Ah! whither have those visions gone?[17]

I was roused from one of memory’s sweetest dreams, by the distant sound of bells—they were those of my native city—I had often heard them at the same hour—they spoke of wo, devotion, and joy, and scenes long gone by. In this softened state of feeling I entered the town, and, heedless of the throng, I hurried on to the home of my parents—reached the house—threw myself into their arms, and the first tumult of feeling over, I sat at the fireside, with my father on the one side, and my mother at the other, gazing affectionately upon me, while I talked of all I had seen, and all I had felt.

Being tired after my journey, my mother suggested the propriety of my going to rest; and the tender hand that had often smoothed my pillow, again performed that office. I could not help comparing my situation with the nights that I had lain exposed to the storm, with the cold earth for my bed; and I felt a lively impulse of gratitude—worth a thousand formal prayers—to the Divine Being, who had watched over, and protected me through every danger, and brought me in safety back to my home and my parents.

While my mind was occupied in these reflections, my mother again entered my chamber to see if I wanted anything. ‘Are you asleep, Joseph’—my eyes were shut, and I did not reply. She stood over me with the light in her hand gazing on my weather-beaten countenance. ‘My poor wanderer!’ she ejaculated, ‘what must you have endured since I last saw you. Danger and death has surrounded you, fatigue and hunger attended your steps; but yet you have been kindly dealt with, mercifully preserved. I return thee thanks, thou Almighty giver of every good, for thy bounteous mercy to my poor boy—O guide him to thyself!’ She stooped to kiss my forehead—her warm tears fell upon my face—my emotions became too strong for concealment, and afraid that she had disturbed my sleep, she softly left the room.

Those who have felt the rude storms of adversity, and the endearing kindness of a mother, will appreciate my feelings on this occasion.

FOOTNOTES:

[17] This expression of my feelings may appear, to some, like bombast or affected feeling—I care not. I appeal to those who have felt an enthusiastic love of nature; if it touches a responding chord in their bosoms, I am satisfied.

CHAPTER VI.

STORY OF WILLIAM.

While in winter quarters, in the latter end of 1812, a detachment of recruits joined us from the depot at home, some of whom were attached to our company. Among them was a lad of the name of William Young, a native of Glasgow. His conduct and character were so strikingly different from that of his comrades, that he soon became an object of remark. He might then be about eighteen or nineteen years of age, prepossessing in his appearance; but his countenance was ‘sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,’—something seemed to lie heavy at his heart. When not on duty he was in the habit of wandering much by himself, and, unless when he could not avoid it, he rarely spoke to any one. When the weather did not permit him to ramble, he occupied himself in reading a small pocket Bible, which he always carried about with him, and often, while thus engaged, the tears could be seen trickling down his cheeks. Those of course were considered symptoms of religious feeling, and as such were ridiculed by the more brutal and illiterate part of his comrades; it was, however, confined to them, for there is a sacredness attached to even the appearance of religion in the minds of those who have been brought up by religious parents, that however lax their own morality may be, prevents them from turning it into ridicule. Their hearts still cherish the recollection of the holy feelings which have been excited in their younger years, and untainted at the core, sigh to think they do not now feel as they were wont, that purity and happiness which by association must ever be connected with their religious observances. I felt interested in him, and soon acquired his confidence so far, that he confided to me the outlines of his story, up to the time of his enlisting. There seemed, however, to be a feeling of self-contempt mixed up with his grief, that prevented him from entering particularly into the circumstances which led to that step. What I learned was, that he had left a widowed mother and a sister behind, who had depended in a great measure upon him for support; that the Bible, which he was in the habit of reading, was the gift of his mother, when they parted; and although he felt pleasure and consolation from scanning its contents, there were other feelings connected with it which often led his thoughts far from what he was reading, and raised emotions in his mind that brought tears from his eyes. Without seeking to pry into what he seemed inclined to conceal, I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to turn the current of his thoughts into some other channel, but my efforts were unavailing; the destitute manner in which he had left his mother seemed to prey upon his mind, and although he conformed himself well enough to the duties he had to perform, yet he still remained the same melancholy, abstracted being as when I first knew him.